


Reylo Drabbles

by bobaheadshark



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, First drabble is a loosely Indonesia-based AU, Gojeklo hive I love you guys, Inspired by Ratatouille (2007), Prompt Fill, Second drabble is Ketchuplo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobaheadshark/pseuds/bobaheadshark
Summary: Reylo fic drabbles! Currently: food themed.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 25
Kudos: 34





	1. Left My Heart At a Food Cart

**Author's Note:**

> Rey is a nasi goreng vendor, Ben's the policeman tasked with clearing out the street that she and her friends call home. He has a small epiphany when he tries her food for the first time.
> 
> Inspired by [Ms Random on Twitter](https://twitter.com/MsRandom1401/status/1220925433169891328)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble was inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/MsRandom1401/status/1220925433169891328)! 
> 
> Caveat: I'm not Indonesian, though I grew up and live in Southeast Asia. The regional Gojeklo hive are the best and hilarious with their prompts!
> 
> I'm calling this a drabble collection as they may be short pieces of writing or prompt-fills that need a home. Feel free to leave a comment if you enjoyed :)

“What do you think?”, she asked.

What did he _think_?

He thought he hadn’t tasted Nasi Goreng like this since Leia had made it for him as a child. In the vast rolling diplomatic residential compound Southwest of Jakarta, when she wasn’t busy negotiating trade deals for the American delegation, she would sit in the kitchen with him and teach him how to make this dish. Han would join sometimes, bringing back spices from his travels afar in Komodo, Kyoto, Kuala Lumpur. Ben had thought that one day, he could list all the cities of the world by their capital letters alphabetically, and perhaps his Dad would agree to take him on one of his trips.

The metal fork was a tiny thing in the palm of his hand now, the plastic-covered handle hidden beneath the ridges of his knuckles that had gone bone-white. Was he shaking? It seemed impossible that a man like him, who could disassemble a Glock in less than 30 seconds, who could pummel a moving object with the force of a small car, who could separate the demands of his law enforcement career from the emotional energy required of him to compartmentalise it daily, would be undone by a rice dish that cost the equivalent of a few US cents. 

He took another bite, chewing carefully. The flavour of it exploded in his mouth, a smash of oil on his tastebuds quickly chased by the firm texture of chicken, a touch of umami from the soy, a crunch of cabbage and sprout, the rich mix of spices that was mellifluous in its intensity of flavour. Every vendor had a different and highly guarded spice mix that they would never reveal, but this – this was unpeeling something deep in his psyche that scared him on a profound level. 

Soul food. 

One thing he refused to do was cry. That was what tourists in those Netflix documentaries did. That was what the Academy had – without fists, but with considerable force – beaten out of him. Crying was a privilege reserved for the downtrodden people whose paperwork he had to process every day, moving them along in the system as he tried to forget their faces, though he remembered every single one. 

The woman, the street vendor, was standing with her hands on her hips in front of him and hadn’t moved since she’d put the dish on the plastic table. She was a spirited one, shouting cheeky insults at her friends manning the neighbouring food carts, causing a ruckus, not caring that he had been staring. She’d seen him looking at the chipped cerulean paint of her cart and beckoned him over wordlessly, frying up eggs and rice and vegetables in a big metal wok with the aplomb of a Michelin-starred chef. 

She was brushing a lock of chestnut hair out of her sweat covered brow now, waiting for him to say something. It was really the most ridiculous getup she was wearing: a pink flower apron – probably thrifted as street vendors were wont to do – on top of a neon green twinset that Ben thought might be repurposed pyjamas. The ensemble was finished off with a pair of sliders that he’d seen trendy youngsters wear, usually Adidas, but these read “Adido” instead. 

She also looked less assured than she was trying to let on, an edge to her expression he couldn’t fully comprehend. But he wanted to.

“It’s great,” he finally said, smiling.

She smiled back. That expression. He wanted to hang the moon on it. He wanted to throw himself at the foot of this Athena and win it, over and over. He'd ignore everything rational and tear the city apart to see it again. 

He put his fork down.

“I’m Ben, by the way,” he said, reaching out his arm to shake her hand.

She took it.

“ _Selamat pagi_ , as they say. I’m Rey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I use probably too many em dashes.
> 
> [Nasi Goreng](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nasi_goreng) is one of the best things ever.
> 
> [Selamat Pagi](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/selamat_pagi) is Good Morning in Bahasa.
> 
> This first drabble is a crack-ish prompt that evolved into more feelz than I thought.
> 
> I'm conscious that I need to treat the Indonesian context with care because the last thing I'd want is for my stories to look like it's a bunch of white people appropriating ID cultural norms. But here I'm going for an AU-ish setup which is hopefully ok. I welcome the discussion about this though so please feel free to DM me on Twitter if you have thoughts.
> 
> Hopefully more Asian-ish Reylo stories to come.
> 
> P.S. say hello to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bobaheadshark)!


	2. Ketchuplo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ketchuplo minific I drunk-tweeted from January that I decided to put up for fun. Enjoy. I talk fic and fandom a lot on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bobaheadshark), so come say hi!

* * *

If it were possible for a ketchup bottle to be big, dark and broody this would be it. Ben Solo, the lorgest ketchup bottle in all of First Order Diner, always the first to be refilled, always with the freshest ketchup.

This was no Heinz basic business. This bottle was fine Tuscan tomato on the vine. This was the ketchup reserved for visiting dignitaries, European Royals no matter how spurious the connection, and Beyoncé. That’s right, Beyoncé had once touched this ketchup bottle and Ben would never shut up about it.

“Please we don’t need to hear your story about Beyoncé any more,” screamed Hux, as the waitress refilled his oval bottle with the bitterest, sourest vinegar.

“We know you have the biggest bottle energy already!” Rose lamented.

“For the love of Kraft please spare us your lecture about proportional chip to tomato sauce ratio”, Poe said, hot sauce sliding down the sides of his Tabasco body.

But one day. One day a NEW bottle appeared. Ben could handle this. He had fought off all the bottles of Ren and he was Chef Snoke’s Favourite. Nevermind that Chef Snoke’s dishes were whispered about in the culinary world as “convoluted” and “pretentious”...

The bottle had all the markings of a normal ketchup bottle. So Ben did what he always did. Said a disdainful “hello” so that the new bottle knew its place in the saucey hierarchy.

“I am the top bottle around here” said Ben.

“Good for you, because I do not care,” said the other bottle.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Why was this ketchup newcomer not intimidated?

“From where do you hail” Ben asked.

“Nowhere,” said the new bottle.

“No, with your perfectly proportioned bottle shape you must be from somewhere. Kraft? Pepsico? Mondelez???”, Ben implored.

“Snoke found me in a flea market, the new bottle said.

SECONDHAND???? Impossible.

A bottle this fine, this intimidatingly beautiful, a Da Vinci of condiments, having ingredients of no provenance? The truth of it shook Ben to his watery core.

“Who are you?” asked Ben.

“I am Rey,” said the new bottle. Rey. Dazzling. Like a sunbeam on the diner counter at 4pm that Ben liked to be placed in sometimes. Nevermind that it COMPLETELY messed with his liquid to tomato paste ratio. What Snoke didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“What tomatoes do you contain?” asked Ben.

“None at all.”

None at ALL? This imposter. Fiend. It was unimaginable. A bottle that by all accounts looked exactly like him, but did not hold tomato like always???

“So what purpose do you serve? What foods do you enhance?” asked Ben.

Rey the mystery bottled seemed to wriggle around looking for the answer before she didn’t answer him at all.

“I don’t know. For I am sriracha. Not tomato-based at all.”

SRIRACHA???? The thought echoed around Ben’s glassy brain. Snoke would deign to sully the balance of the diner with SPICE? This would not stand. She would introduce the Scoville scale, this was a betrayal of the highest order.

“Besides”, said Rey, “I am not afraid of you. I have seen bottles like you in the big yard sales where I have been. Usually, the largest bottles are the ones easily knocked over when you knock them by their bottoms.”

Ben was exposed. Terrified. Nobody had ever spoken to him, the no.1 bottle, in such a way. Hux, Rose and Poe were utterly silent, squeaking their bottle caps in amusement.

“Chili is not wanted in this establishment.” Ben, said rather unconvincingly.

“It’s a good thing you appear to be able to take the heat, then.” Rey said.

Ben was annoyed, but more importantly, he was now intrigued. It was going to be a very interesting, flavourful, spicy night.

#A JUMPCUT FOR REASONS#

EPILOGUE: three months later, business at Snoke’s was booming. Queues for the scrambled eggs waffle combo with the Reylo sauce were the talk of the town, the brunch queues circling the block.

“There’s something special in Snoke’s new mystery Reylo sauce — citrusy, slow-burning” wrote Bazine, Naboo’s top food critic.

“A closely guarded secret, but one that both manages to intrigue and ignite the palate. A dining revelation.”

#THE END#

Notes:


End file.
